


"four seasons (for love)"

by ang3lba3, Mellomailbox



Series: Real Housewives of Republic City [5]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blue Spirit Zuko (Avatar), Break Up, F/F, Getting Back Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Republic City, Zuko gets injured
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27344731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellomailbox/pseuds/Mellomailbox
Summary: Zuko and Sokka are in love. That's why they can't stay together. (And it's why they can't stay apart.)Wherein: a man dies, Zuko learns to stop running away, and Sokka reads the goddamn books.Told non-sequentially to minimize your suffering.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Real Housewives of Republic City [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811134
Comments: 11
Kudos: 214





	"four seasons (for love)"

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: giant TW for physical abuse on this one! Zuko gets a comparable injury to his eye. he receives medical care while begging to be left alone and not in his entirely right mind, and expresses some mild suicidal ideation. TW for an abridged description of Sokka post break up trying to get him back in a way that might be triggery for stalking victims. Also, we begin to elaborate on Mai and Zuko's relationship, which is probably best described as queerplatonic with a past sexual component and the possibility for one in the future. (They don't do anything sexual, though.)

**EARLY SPRING- PRESENT.**

Sokka stares at the ocean stretching out in front of the prow. It seems endless, meeting the horizon in a blue blur. He hasn’t been able to see the South Pole for the last hour, but he keeps staring. 

Going home again— his other home, the home he built for himself— feels… feels…

“I’m going to be sick,” he mutters.

“Do it over the side,” the captain, passing by, says disapprovingly. 

Sokka sighs. He has to talk to Zuko. He has to figure out what he wants to _say_ to Zuko. The books sit heavy in his bag, spines broken and pages marked. 

And La willing, it will go better than the last time did.

*** **PREVIOUS** **WINTER** ***

“Stop _helping me,_ ” Zuko snaps. 

“Fuck you,” Toph snaps back, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the bell. Sokka looks up from where he’s cleaning the flattop and freezes. “If you didn’t want help, maybe you shouldn’t have kicked someone in the _face.”_

“I am _fine,_ ” Zuko insists. His face is bone white from the pain, and he’s clinging to Toph’s shoulders, clearly unwilling to put pressure on his feet.

“What,” Sokka says, still holding the scraper dully. 

“Hi, there’s nothing wrong with me,” Zuko says. He’s sweating profusely. 

“We need drugs,” Toph adds cheerfully, dragging Zuko fast enough that he stumbles. 

“For recreational purposes,” Zuko screeches. 

Zuko’s mask is hanging around his neck by the ribbon. Anyone could walk in and see him and Toph. Despite the hour of the night Sokka’s still open-- he’s always open, lately, always working-- and he shoves Zuko’s chair at them. 

Not Zuko’s chair anymore. It’s just a chair. 

Toph dumps Zuko into it, ignoring his protests. Then she grabs the table, drags it, grabs Zuko’s shins and props them on it. 

“What are you doing here?” Sokka asks, rushing to flip the open sign to closed and pulling the blinds closed. He doesn’t let himself hesitate when he hops the counter and takes Zuko’s mask, stashing it under the table and out of sight. 

“Patronizing your blace of pusiness,” Zuko says. 

“Shut up,” Toph says. “Sparky’s injured, and he doesn’t want to see your sister.”

“I think she’s already left,” Sokka says, filling a bucket with water and setting it down next to Zuko’s chair. He takes Zuko’s wrist and shoves his hand in the tepid water, ordering, “boil this.” He’s working on autopilot now, a problem and a solution and clear steps between the two. 

“Hand,” Zuko says, staring at Sokka’s hand. 

Right. He’s not boil proof, and he’s still— holding onto Zuko. He lets go, flexing his fingers to shake the water off. 

“I don’t need this much tea,” Zuko says, eyebrows furrowed dumbly as he heats the bucket.

“He needs to see a healer,” Sokka tells Toph, voice strained. Zuko’s clearly in shock, and when he goes to remove his boots the leather is melted into his skin deeply enough that-- no, that’s not melted leather, that’s old _blood._ It’s thick and clotted, and Toph has to hold Zuko still as he instinctively jerks his leg away. 

“No, I’m, had worse,” Zuko pants when he can speak again. “No healers.”

The smell is strong enough that Sokka coughs. Toph visibly gags, stepping away. “I can’t,” she says, and Soka doesn’t know if it’s the sensitivity of her nose or the vulnerability of being afraid for Zuko. 

“Get help,” he tells her. 

“This isn’t working,” Zuko says, and shoves the bucket a little in frustration. Sokka yelps as the water splashes him, expecting to be burned. But it’s barely lukewarm. 

“I need it boiling,” he tells Zuko. Zuko doesn’t seem to understand for a moment before his expression clears enough to scowl. 

“Oh, well, once again I can’t _give you what you need,”_ he whines dramatically. 

Sokka lights his stove as Toph leaves, stone buckling and rocketing her away. He pours the water from the bucket into a pot and digs around in the cabinet by the mini cooler for the stash of water weed. 

“What are you—” Zuko asks. His voice catches, and there’s the sound of shifting fabric. “What are you doing, Sokka?”

“I don’t know,” he admits as he opens the lid of the jar and hands it to Zuko. “Eat this.” He hasn’t washed his hands. They’re still covered in grease and dirt, and he rushes to his feet and over to the sink. 

“No, I need… I need to get my shoes back on,” Zuko says, putting the tin down with a clatter. When Sokka looks over his shoulder, he’s bending and twisting awkwardly in his chair trying to reach the boots on the floor without moving his legs. “I need a cab. To be not here.”

“Sit still,” Sokka snaps, scared that Zuko’s going to fall out of the chair. Once his hands are dried he pulls down a stack of clean rags and sets the pot on the floor, kneeling next to him. 

There’s so much blood. It’s black and thick, scabs and dirt and general viscera. Whatever happened, Sokka knows enough that it’s not recent. “What happened?” he asks, unable to even see the source of the injury. His soles are just _covered._

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Zuko says, distracted. He’s got the waterweed tin in his hand now, playing with the lid absently. “Hey, can I have some of this?”

“Yes,” Sokka says, gently pressing a wet rag to one of Zuko’s feet. Zuko screams and thrashes away, but Sokka’s expecting it and grabs his ankle firmly. He doesn’t drag it, letting the water work to clear away the worst of the grime until he can see two large blisters that have burst.

They’re burns. Burn blisters, bigger than Sokka’s ever seen. 

“Please, stop,” Zuko’s sobbing, no longer trying to pull away but shaking violently. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Sokka feels sick. Zuko’s sweating and crying, snot and tears dripping down his chin and collecting in the collar of his Blue Spirit robe. He switches to the other foot, unsurprised to find the same injury. 

“Zuko,” Sokka says, voice thick with emotion. He was walking on them. Presumably, due to the costume, he’d been _fighting._ “Who did this to you?” 

“I’m sorry,” Zuko’s still sobbing. The water weed drops from his hand. “I won’t leave again, I’m _sorry.”_

It doesn’t make sense. Sokka lifts the jar and scoops some of the cream out, forgetting to put on gloves. Zuko must be in his own head, and what he’s saying-- the implications--

“Your family did this,” Sokka says quietly as he applies the medicine as gently as he can. Normally he’d rub it into the skin, but he’s so scared of injuring him more that he just cakes it on, too much. 

Zuko doesn’t hear him. He’s crying too hard, so hard he’s starting to make little retching noises. 

“Tui and La,” Katara says. Sokka is suddenly so grateful that he’s a selfish jerk of a brother who can’t keep track of what’s going on in her life, because she’s not a million miles away on Appa and is instead here, right when he needs her. 

She’s dressed for travel, has a bag over her shoulder. So he wasn’t entirely wrong then, but she must have stopped to say goodbye, or to have another _talk_ about how many hours he’s working.

“Toph said,” she starts, setting the bag down. So she was getting ready to leave when Toph found her. 

She’s here. That’s all that matters. 

“He’s really hurt,” Sokka says, shifting back so that Katara can take his spot. His hands are numb and shaking from the water weed contact and he falls on his ass and stays there.

“Is that water clean?” she asks, rolling up her sleeves, already bending it out of the pot to check for herself. It glows a gentle deep blue. 

“I think so,” he says. He needs to wash his hands. Zuko’s blood is all over them. 

“Please,” Zuko whimpers, staring at Katara. “Please don’t. I’ll be good.” 

“These are over bending points,” she murmurs. Sokka needs to wash his hands and he stumbles to his feet and back over to the sink. “You shouldn’t have applied anything, I’m going to have to take it off.” 

“He was in pain,” Sokka says quietly. 

“He’s still in pain. The damage to his feet burned out all of the surface nerves, the cream isn’t making a difference other than affecting his awareness.” 

“He— no, he was like this earlier, too,” Sokka says, since that might be important. “He’s been weird the whole time.”

“These are bending points,” Katara says again, pulling fresh water directly from the faucet. Zuko’s still whimpering and gasping. It’s slowing down, though, either through resignation or lack of energy. “Key points in firebenders, specifically. The damage isn’t just to his skin, it’s to his spirit.” 

“What? What does that mean? That sounds bad,” Sokka says. It’s not like he believes in all the wishy-washy spirit stuff Katara does, but spirit damage isn’t a _joke._ It had almost killed Yue in her teens. 

He can’t help but to grasp Zuko’s hand where it’s flexing on his thigh, needing the anchor, needing to feel him alive. 

“I don’t know what it means for him,” Katara admits, sparing Sokka a glance. “Let me work and I’ll tell you.” 

Sokka opens his mouth to ask what she needs, but her glare makes him snap it shut and mime zipping it.

Zuko’s staring vacantly at the stove, breathing ragged in his throat. His hand is limp in Sokka’s, clammy and cold. Katara works with a focus that Sokka can only admire, brows drawn and hands twisting. Occasionally she replenishes her water, and at one point Sokka has to wipe sweat from her brow before it drips into her eyes. 

She hasn’t stopped bending the entire time. Katara’s breathing is getting just as ragged as Zuko’s, and finally she leans back on her heels, her hands going dark. 

“I need Aang,” she admits. Sokka gets her a glass of water that she downs. There’s a phonebooth down the street, but he’s loathe to leave them alone. 

“Hey, Zuko,” Sokka says. Zuko doesn’t even twitch towards him, gives no indication he’s heard. Sokka’s voice cracks. “Zuko?”

“Go call Aang,” Katara says, voice firm. 

He calls Aang. 

“I need an expert on spirit bending,” Katara explains, rolling her eyes when Sokka’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “He’s not an Avatar for nothing, you know. The only other spirit bender on the continent is Iroh.” 

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to get Iroh, considering,” Sokka gestures at Zuko. 

Katara frowns at Zuko. “I… Sokka, who did this?” she asks. 

Oh. “Not Iroh,” Sokka says, sure in that. 

“No, not Iroh,” she agrees. “But. I— this isn’t the first time Zuko’s had serious burns.” They’re both thinking the same thing; that there aren’t any really powerful firebenders in the city outside of Zuko’s own family and Detective Mako. 

“It’s just better to not get Zuko’s family involved,” she decides. “For now. Does he have anyone else we can call?”

“He’s staying with Toph,” Sokka admits. Katara’s face betrays what she thinks about that, and Sokka scowls. 

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, palms up. Aang chooses that moment to break the tension, and the next few hours are spent between him and Katara. 

When Zuko finally wakes from his trancelike state, it’s to scream and punch a flame at Aang. He immediately balks, curling into himself as Aang takes the flame and dissipates it. 

“What— how did I— how am I—” he asks, eyes wide and darting around the room. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay buddy,” Aang says. “You’ve got spirit damage, it can make your memories weird. You’re in Sokka’s shop.”

“I was at _home,_ how am I here,” Zuko says, hugging himself.

“Toph says that you asked to come here,” Sokka says. Zuko visibly flinches at the sound of his voice and turns away from it. 

Yeah. That makes sense. 

“I… probably meant another Sokka…” Zuko mumbles, convincingly.

“Zuko,” Katara says. She puts her hands on his knees and he seems to take in his surroundings. The way that everyone’s kneeling, the pinked water all over the floor, the exhaustion. The sky is just starting to light, a deep blue. “What happened?”

Zuko shakes his head, eyes closing. 

“I uh—” he laughs, weakly. “Uh. Memories weird, right? I don’t. Remember.”

“You can’t,” Katara says, angry, and Aang puts his hand on her shoulder but it’s too late. 

“I can!” Zuko snaps back, straightening his spine. He’s still flushed, hair awry, and he steadies himself on the counter next to him, feet hovering without touching the floor. “It’s _none_ of your businesses.” 

“We just saved your life,” Aang explains gently while Katara fights back exhausted tears. He rubs his hand in circles against his back, absently comforting. 

Zuko’s expression shudders. “I never asked for that.” 

“Okay,” Sokka says, instead of reaching over and _strangling him_. “Ignoring that. Katara, is he safe to go home?”

“No!” she snaps, scrubbing at her face the same way that Sokka does. “No, he’s not, because if he doesn’t fix the damage--” 

“I thought that’s what you just spent all night doing?” Sokka asks incredulously. 

“I spent all night _stabilizing him,”_ Katara says. 

“Yeah, very stable,” Zuko confirms. He’s craning his neck around, looking for his shoes. He won’t find them. They were declared cesspools of disease and thrown out two hours ago.

“Spirit bending isn’t one sided,” Aang tells Sokka. He’s probably trying to explain it to Zuko too, without actually addressing him and making him close up. Things like this remind Sokka that Aang is actually a really good peacemaker. “He wasn’t conscious, so we stabilized him from the outside. But the damage is internal, so he needs to participate in the healing process.” 

“I’m fine,” Zuko says, face souring. “I don’t need spirit healing.”

“He’s not going to,” Sokka says, a little angry and a lot panicked. 

“Well, uh, you probably should,” Aang says, clapping a friendly hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “I didn’t get a great look, but the damage is really severe. Chronic.”

“You’re going to die, you self sacrificing prick,” Katara says. She doesn’t normally talk like this, even when she’s really angry, but Sokka doesn’t mind because it relays exactly how he’s feeling. 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Zuko says, shrugging off Aang’s hand.

“Fire flux is serious,” Aang says, pulling his hand back and putting it on Katara’s shoulder instead. “Zuko, you—”

“This is why I didn’t want Toph to take me to you! You’re-- you don’t care what happens to me, you care about what Sokka--” Zuko cuts himself off and stands with a stubbornly pained expression. The worst of the burns are healed, but the skin will be swollen and tender for days. 

Katara’s tears come back and she shakes her head, tugging at Aang’s arm. “We have to go, honey. Just-- Iroh’s still in town, and maybe Korra can help if there’s nobody else.” 

“I’m not going to Uncle’s,” Zuko says. He limps around the kitchen, looking for his shoes.

“Fine,” Sokka says, exasperated. “Don’t. I’ll go.”

Zuko whips around, finally looking at him. It’s the first time he has the whole evening, and Sokka’s frozen from it. Zuko’s eyes are wild and bright, his snarl scrunching up his face as he jabs a finger at him. 

“Don’t,” Zuko says. “Do not. I’m not your responsibility.” 

Katara and Aang don’t bother staying to watch the fallout. The bell rings as they leave, and Sokka breathes, and breathes. 

“No. I guess you’re not,” he finally says, toeing off his boots and kicking them over to Zuko. 

“Okay,” Zuko says, and looks down at Sokka’s shoes. He stares at them. “Did you throw my boots out.”

“Goodbye Zuko,” Sokka says tiredly. He didn’t schedule any of his staff for today, and he moves tiredly to the sign and flips it back to open as the sun starts to crest the buildings. 

“I—” Zuko says, and then there’s the sounds of him trying not to breathe too loudly as he crams his stupid big feet in Sokka’s shoes. “I’m sorry for the— inconvenience. I’ll send money.” 

“Mhhm,” Sokka says, fighting the exhaustion as it barrels into him, crushing tides of emotion that drag down his limbs. 

The backdoor clicks open, but doesn’t click shut.

“Don’t get involved,” Zuko says, voice strained. “Please. I— you have to understand by now. Don’t _get involved.”_

The door clicks shut.

Sokka stares at the wreck of his kitchen. It’s a fucking biological hazard. There’s blood and drugs everywhere.

“I am going to get _so involved,_ ” he tells it. 

Then he gets a mop.

*** **EARLY SPRING- PRESENT** ***

_drugs please_

There’s a doodle of the Blue Spirit where a signature would be. 

Sokka stares at the little note for a long while. “Hey, Mian? Has the Blue Spirit been leaving notes while I’ve been gone?” 

“Hm?” Mian asks, shaking the kelp fries free of the boiling oil. “No? There was some very fancy gentleman here earlier, though.”

Zuko must know he’s back in town, then. Sokka wonders where he’s been getting his drugs in the meantime. Sokka has been sending a supply to Toph during his sabbatical in the South Pole, but he doubts that Zuko’s been accepting them from her. The jerk probably has her own ring now where she’s marking up his prices. 

Sokka tries not to read into the note. He flips the paper over. There’s another doodle. A dragon holding some kind of...flower, maybe? 

“Jasmine Dragon,” he says, and crumples it up in his hand. He should burn it. That’s too much information, especially when delivered _by_ Zuko.

What is he thinking? 

This is-- this is okay. The pain in his chest is still there every time he thinks about Zuko. It’s milder now, though, softened by possibility. By planning, and yeah-- by understanding, to an extent. Reading the culture books doesn’t really help him with their fundamental flaws, and he has no real reason to think that Zuko would even want to try again. 

But he left him a note. Sokka smooths out the seams and folds it neatly in two, tucking it into his pants pocket. 

“I’m going to do a delivery,” Sokka calls back to Mian. “How are we on tea?”

“Um… half supply!” Mian says. “I can do it tonight—”

“No, I’ve got business in the area,” Sokka reassures her. He heads into the back, picks up Zuko’s usual order. He holds it, looking at it, then shoves it in a box and shoves the box into his satchel.

Zuko’s not at the Jasmine Dragon. Sokka tries not to be obvious as he looks around, but Iroh sees him and smiles gently, pulling him into a hug. 

Sokka tries his best not to startle at the warmth. Iroh’s always been a kind man, but there’s always been a steel to his gaze when the issue of protecting Zuko comes up. The fact that Sokka’s hurt him should mean that Iroh chases him out the moment he sees him. 

Instead he throws an arm over Sokka’s shoulder and leads him into the kitchen. “What brings you by, Sokka? I’ve heard stories that you’ve been with your Father.” 

“Delivery,” he says, slipping the box out of his satchel. “Just got back. We’re about halfway through our tea supply, too.”

Iroh strokes his beard. They both know that he’s not surprised, and he takes the box without comment, setting it on a tray. There’s a teapot and familiar orange jar. Zuko’s Fire Flower tea. 

Zuko’s here. 

“How have you—” Iroh starts, just as Sokka bursts out with, “How’s Zuko?”

“Fine! Good,” Sokka says, flushing and trying to pretend he never asked. He feels stupid. 

Iroh smiles. “Zuko is also fine and also good. My nephew gave me quite a stressful winter, mind you, but like most things he’s blossomed in the spring.” 

“Right,” Sokka says, and ignores all the possible undertones to that.

“Death brings rebirth, you know,” Iroh adds with a wink. 

Sokka has a very small heart attack. He knows how bad spirit injuries can be— Yue’s hair is permanently _white_ from hers.

Iroh must see his face, his smile widening into a laugh. “Oh, no! Zuko’s fine. Winter brings the end to many things. Unfortunately for Ozai, his life was one of them. But don’t worry too much; Zuko is handling it remarkably well.” 

Sokka needs to sit down. He does, grabbing for a chair. His knees feel weak. 

“I’ll make a pot of tea,” Iroh decides. “We have much to catch up on, yes?”

“No,” Sokka says, and then adds, “thank you! Thank you. I have-- I have deliveries, and I’m sure you’re busy.” Sokka’s eyes dart back to Zuko’s tea tray and he swallows past the tightness in his throat. 

“Spring brings the rebirth of many things,” Iroh says, trailing after him as he leaves. “Ah, you can just smell the love in the air, can’t you—”

“Okay, bye thank you, bye,” Sokka says, and gets the fuck out of there.

So maybe Iroh is a little pissed that Sokka broke Zuko’s heart. His own is pounding, and Sokka slows to a walk when people on the street start looking at him sideways, clutching their bags closer. He catches his breath and checks his pocket. 

Good. He was able to slip the note underneath the teapot, his answer scribbled beneath Zuko’s. 

*** **LATE FALL- PREVIOUS** ***

Zuko realizes it’s not going to work far, far too late.

He should have realized— years ago. He should have been born knowing that this wasn’t going to work, that someone so good wasn’t for him. Because Sokka is— Sokka _is_ good. And that’s the problem. He can’t let it go, he can’t stop, and he’s going to get them both killed trying to be a hero. 

“We need to break up,” Zuko says. 

“You’re so dramatic, it’s just dinner,” Sokka says, rolling his eyes. He’s stretched out on the blankets beside Zuko, both of them half clothed and still sticky. “I’ll behave myself, promise. I’m getting the hang of this courting thing. And I’d rather have your back than see you come home upset again.”

“No, I—” Zuko says. He feels sick. He might be sick. He sits up, pulling his shirt closed, fingers trembling on the buttons. “I mean it. We should break up.” 

There’s silence, enough time for Zuko to buckle his trousers, before Sokka gives a weak laugh. 

“I know the sex wasn’t as good as it could have been,” he tries weakly, sitting up and reaching for Zuko. 

Zuko jerks away, eyes wild. He can’t let Sokka touch him. If Sokka touches him he’ll give in. He’s helpless against Sokka’s hands. They’re big and warm and always gentle, even when they’re not. Zuko looks at them so that he doesn’t have to look at Sokka’s face. 

“I’m not who you think I am,” he says, the only thing that he can think of to get Sokka to listen. It’s the truth, too, and it rings in their bedroom like a bell.

Well. Not their bedroom anymore. 

“Who do I think you are?” Sokka asks. He sounds tired. 

Zuko feels tired. 

“I dunno,” Zuko says, and stands. He digs around on the floor for some socks. “Someone else.”

“Zuko, we don’t have to do this today. Please? Come back to bed?” Sokka thinks it’s just another fight. Another one of many, many fights, because that’s all they do, because Zuko’s bad for him and Sokka’s good, too good. 

And he’s smart. Sokka’s been asking more about Zuko’s family, eyes calculated. Toph said that he asked her about them too, and about Zuko’s fights in the ring. 

“No, we have to,” Zuko says, and swallows. “Because I’m not— I don’t want to fight with you any more. And I can’t— this can’t be a fight, because I just want to stop fighting with you, and we make up. But we shouldn’t. We’re not, we’re not good. Okay? We’re not good together. I’m _bad_ for you.” 

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say. But it’s the truth, and Sokka doesn’t want him to lie to him. 

“I get to choose if you’re good for me,” Sokka says, elbows on his knees. His fingers are threaded together as he watches Zuko, calculating, trying to decipher him. 

“No, you get to choose to hurt yourself with me,” Zuko says. He finds a sock, pulls it on, almost overbalancing. And another one, a different color. Whatever. “And I get to choose to not be a part of it.”

Sokka doesn’t argue. “I love you,” he says, and when Zuko doesn’t answer in kind he says it again. “I _love_ you, Zuko. Why are you doing this?” 

There’s not enough heat behind it. Sokka still thinks everything’s going to work. 

He can’t lie. He _can’t_ lie. It would be so easy to, it would be so easy to lie and say he never loved him, not give Sokka anything real. But he can’t. He said he wouldn’t. And that matters.

“Because I don’t trust you,” he says, and wipes at his eyes with the base of his palms. “I can’t. I can’t trust you.” 

That hits. Sokka audibly reacts, voice tight as he asks, “is this about your family? I can wait, Zuko, I don’t have to push you--” 

It’s too close to the mark. Sokka’s going to know, and Zuko’s going to die when Sokka dies, because he can’t live in a world without Sokka. And Ozai will kill him, because Sokka is good, and Sokka won’t be able to stand by while Zuko lets them-- he _lets_ them, Sokka’s going to know, and he’s going to see Zuko differently, it’s _shameful--_

“Just let me go!” Zuko yells. “Stop— stop! You’re always dragging me back, just let me go, let me _go!”_

Sokka lets him go. 

Until the next day. He begs Uncle to turn him away. Uncle won’t and finally Zuko gets desperate and tells him, he tells his Uncle everything. 

Sokka comes by every day for two weeks. He sends letters. He shouts up to Zuko’s window, desperate and angry. 

Uncle turns him away for Zuko. Finally, someone who listens. 

Things are — things are bad with Mai. He doesn’t visit as much anymore, can feel the gap between what they had and what they have, for a person he can’t even be with. She doesn’t try to bridge it, is nothing like Sokka. Lets him lick his wounds and never pushes. 

He’s not sure what hurts worse.

*** **LATE SPRING- PRESENT** ***

Sokka’s favorite thing about Thursdays is waiting on his desk when he unlocks the back, ready to finish up work on the wedding dress he’d been commissioned for a few years ago. 

The crumbled papers evolved to notes evolved to letters. Now there’s a soft pink envelope, scented, and the card he pulls out is thick and high quality. 

_Buttface,_

_As requested, a letter of the quality you deserve._

There’s an ornately detailed drawing of a penis tied in a bow. A shimmering series of rhinestones— or, no, those are very small diamonds, what the fuck Zuko— spread in an arc from the tip.

_Zuko_

Sokka grins and checks the locked drawer. It’s still locked, but when he opens it the box of drugs is gone. 

The bag in its place is also embroidered with penises.

Zuko really knows how to make a guy feel special.

***

Zuko doesn’t hide his smile when Uncle hands him his mail and there’s a pink envelope sitting right on top. 

_Fire Nation Scum_ is scrawled on the front in curled, fancy font. There’s a flower on the back where the envelope was glued shut that looks suspiciously like an asshole. 

On the letter, there’s a drawing of a large glass of water. It’s not a very good drawing, but they’ve been steadily improving. Sokka’s better with tactile work, where he can physically build the dimensions up, and with color.

_You seemed thirsty._

_Yours, A Tall Glass of Water_

He should— he should probably stop this. Right? He should stop this. 

(He heads to his desk, and pulls out the stationary.)

***

Zuko’s been seeing Smellerbee to fix his armor since Sokka -- since Sokka. She’s not as good as him, and she takes far longer, but he inevitably has to be fitted for some of the pieces and that’s just not something that he can do. 

Not yet, anyways. 

Perhaps soon. 

So he’s surprised when he’s fingering a hole in one of the seams to find a note folded in it, Sokka’s familiar scrawl. 

_Smellerbee’s out of her depth. I can pencil you in next Wednesday, 7pm?_

He panics and burns it, even though he’s in— not in public, he’s in an alley, but he burns it. In _public._ In his Blue Spirit costume.

Zuko has to do something about this.

***

Thursday comes and no letter comes with it. They’ve been playing with each other more, Sokka trying to make it harder for Zuko to get to his order box and Zuko cheerfully breaking through whatever complex scheme Sokka comes up with. 

They still haven’t talked about anything. Not that they’ve talked at all, but they haven’t— there were some written apologies. Acceptably vague. But it’s not the kind of thing that Sokka wants to do over a letter. 

Smellerbee has been calling Sokka for help with the more difficult armor that Toph’s been coming up with. It was impulsive to slip the note in Zuko’s gear, but once he saw it on the mannequin he just-- he couldn’t not do _something._ For all intents and purposes, that’s _his_ armor. 

Sokka searches for close to forty five minutes before he gives up. The drugs are gone, the money replacing them, but there’s no notes. 

Okay. Zuko probably just-- he probably hid it really well. Sokka will write to him, teasing him about how good he is at the game and Zuko will give him a clue and everything will be fine. 

***

“Why did I do that, what’s _wrong with me?”_ Zuko wails into his pillow. What made him think that putting it in Sokka’s _underwear_ drawer was okay?

What made Sokka think that putting a letter in Zuko’s clothes— which he shouldn’t have even had access to, Smellerbee had _kidnapped him,_ what was he doing talking to her!-- was okay! What made any of this okay!

There’s a knock on his door. “Nephew, are you okay?”

“YES! GO AWAY!” Zuko hollers.

“There’s a gentleman here to call on you,” Uncle says, unperturbed and a little smug. Sokka wouldn’t be here. He hasn’t tried to see him once since arriving back in Republic City, why is his heart doing flips? 

“I don’t know any gentlemen!” Zuko calls. “Tell them I’m dead! And pregnant! Unsuitable!”

Sokka’s laugh, except it’s _not,_ since it _can’t_ be. 

Zuko’s heart stops. The handle turns, and Zuko jumps out of his window. 

“Hey!” Sokka calls. Zuko’s hanging from a drainpipe. If he tilts his neck up, he’ll be able to see Sokka hanging out his window. 

Zuko does not tilt his neck up. 

“Where’d you hide my letter!” Sokka calls as Zuko’s feet hit the ground. He crouches, taking off down the alley. 

His only hope now is to break into Sokka’s apartment and — burn it down— no, okay, he can’t do that. His only hope is to hide in Mai’s poolhouse until she kicks him out.

***

Okay. For most of the day Sokka’s been sure that Zuko didn’t leave him a letter, and that he’s in fact maintaining the break up. Re-breaking up? It’s strange waters they’re on, that’s for sure.

It’s not until he’s sullenly preparing for a shower, hand brushing paper in his underwear drawer, that his depression lifts.

Sure enough, he pulls out a letter. Sokka grins, and opens it. 

_I’d rather have the real thing._

_Wednesday?_

It’s unsigned. There’s a small border of hearts around the edges of the paper.

He’s glad that nobody’s around to hear him giggle, or throw himself onto the bed and hold the letter to his chest. La and Tui, but he has to go _shopping._

***

“What are you so smiley about?” Katara asks, mirroring Sokka’s pleased little grin. 

“I have a date,” he says, reaching out to tug at her hair loopies. 

Katara yelps in excitement, and hugs him around the shoulders. “I told you you’d move on! Who is it? Do I know them? Are they cute? Of course they’re too cute for _you,_ but—”

She sees Sokka’s smile falter, and her eyes immediately narrow. Oh, shit. He shouldn’t have said anything. 

“You’re kidding me,” she says.

“You don’t even know,” he tells her, but she starts guessing.

“Is it Toph? It can’t be Toph, Sokka--” 

“It’s not Toph!” Sokka says. And then he realizes he’s dug his own grave.

“Is it… Yue and Suki?” she asks, clearly grasping at straws. Katara’s not too judgy about that one, what with the way Toph sneaks into her bed a few times a month.

“I wish,” Sokka admits, because that’s a fantasy he’ll never get to act on.

“Sokka,” Katara says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No. No, please tell me it’s not Zuko.”

“Okay,” Sokka says lightly, “It’s not Zuko.”

“Sokka!” she yells, swatting him on the side of the head. He ducks away but he’s not fast enough, and she wacks him again. “What is wrong with you!” 

“What happened to happy! I’m happy!” Sokka says, dancing away from her hands. Katara chases him, Kya screaming in delight from the papoose around her chest. 

“Well, you shouldn’t be! You were a corpse afterwards, you know? I was sure we’d have to put you on a watch, I’ve never seen you so miserable, why would you do that to yourself again! Get back here!” 

“No! They should put you on a watchlist, you harpy!” Sokka yells, leaping over the couch. He’s almost out the door, just a few more feet— 

Aang thunders down the stairs at the sound of the commotion and slams into Sokka, launching them both out of the front door and onto the street. Katara stands ominously in the doorway, hands on her hips.

“Take him away until he sees reason,” she tells Aang, gesturing at Sokka. Kya mimics the gesture, baby brows furrowed to match. 

“Happy for you, buddy,” Aang whispers into Sokka’s ear as he hoists him into a bridal carry.

Sokka loops his arms around Aang’s neck, and kicks a foot upwards. _“Thank_ you,” he says with the utmost dignity. He turns to Katara and bats his eyelashes at her.

“GO!”

Sokka blows a raspberry, and then Aang’s launching them into the air, dodging the half hearted water whip.

***

“Korra, you’re— you’re… you have a hot girlfriend,” Sokka says, giving up. He was going to compliment her sense of style, but it’s honestly horrible. “How’d you do it?”

“Natural talent,” Korra says, and then burps. “Ugh. We have to stop getting ice cream, Sokka.”

“The city’s made you a wimp,” Sokka says, swallowing his own burp. “Lactose intolerance is a choice.” 

“Aang stole my lactose tolerance,” Korra grumbles.

“Is that another facet of spirit bending?” Sokka asks Aang curiously where he’s double fisting two kinds of ice cream cones. 

“It’s a facet of him being a little shit,” Korra says.

“It’s true, I got the little shit bit of the Avatar spirit,” Aang agrees. He high fives Korra, and when they touch their eyes and tattoos glow white.

“You also got the being able to spirit bend part of the Avatar spirit,” Sokka adds, ducking a punch from Korra.

“I’ll get there! Why are you asking about Asami, anyways? You finally get a date, loser?”

“It’s a used date,” Aang says sagely. “Recycled.” 

“Ooh,” Korra says, and wiggles her eyebrows. “Okay, well, you leave the money on the nightstand _after_ —” 

Sokka should be offended, but he’s too busy trying to decide if his bubble guts are the warning type or the dangerous type. They stop. Warning type it is.

“What’s the deal with Fire Nation patriarchs,” he asks her, hand on his belly. “You’ve met Asami’s dad, right?” 

“I mean, briefly,” Korra says, dropping the teasing. She frowns a little at Sokka. “Before we put him in prison. Your date’s Zuko?”

Sokka makes a seesaw gesture with his hand. “His dad’s dead now, I guess. Why are all rich Fire Nation people evil?”

“Rich people are evil,” Aang says sagely. 

“Mai and Ty Lee are…” Korra makes a face. “They’re sexy evil?”

“Ew,” Sokka says. “What’s the deal with Ozai’s death, anyways?” 

“Asami is _also_ sexy evil,” Korra sighs happily. “She threw the best party for his death. Everyone got trashed. I saw Ty Lee’s—” 

“EW!” Sokka repeats, louder. A family at a nearby park table gives him the stink eye. “Focus. I— I have a date with Zuko, and I read all the books, _multiple times,_ and I still don’t know how this works.”

“I’m not the one to ask about their weird marriage nonsense,” Korra dismisses.

Sokka shakes his head. “No, I’m gonna go to Asami for that bit. But the whole family thing. Are they-- look, when I was with an Earth Kingdom girl,”

“Toph,” they both say.

“Her parents once punished her by making her recite her manners for six hours straight. And with us, we’d get assigned to fire keeping. So I get that places are different in the way families--” 

“Zuko’s parents are dead, Sokka,” Aang reminds him gently. 

Sokka stops, ice cream dripping on his hand. He licks it off, scowling.

“He’s the head of the family now, probably,” Korra says. “Or maybe Azula is? She’s younger, but I don’t know how that shook out. Someone’s still managing the factories and Ozai’s goons, and it’s not _Zuko.”_

Sokka’s thinking too much about the past. He’s pretty sure that Zuko’s relationship with his family wasn’t just _bad._ And the more he thinks about it, the heavier his guilt at letting Zuko break up with him.

He should have protected him. 

“So don’t worry about offending them,” Korra says, cheerfully. “That’s the real bright side to dating an orphan. One of Mako’s biggest selling points, besides his dinky cute little—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Aang says. 

“It is pretty cute,” Sokka nods. 

Korra cups her hand around the side of her mouth and whisper shouts, _“Nipples.”_

“Those too,” Sokka agrees, and Aang bemoans his choice of friends.

“I am a married man,” he groans. “Stop telling me about people I had sex with!”

“This is your own fault for insisting you and Korra are the same person just because you’re both Avatars,” Sokka tells him, feeling no sympathy.

“Leave me alone,” Korra says, and pats Aang soothingly. “I’ve never done anything to you.”

They slurp in silence for a while.

“Do you think it’ll be different this time?” Sokka asks them.

Before Aang can answer with genuine, sage advice, Korra tips the rest of her ice cream on top of Sokka’s head and stands.

“Well, I’ve gotta go take a dump. Later, losers.” She glides away on an ice-board. 

“Can you ice cream bend?” Sokka asks, hand on his forehead to keep it from dribbling into his eyes. “I need to go kill my cousin.”

“You won’t catch her,” Aang says, bending the water out of the ice cream. It leaves the fat and the sugar and the dye caked into Sokka’s hair. “Oof. When’s that date?”

“Tonight,” Sokka lies, because Aang’s reaction will be funny. 

“I’ll give you a lift home,” Aang says nobly, standing so quickly he knocks his ice cream over. 

“As you should, honorable Av-ate-err,” Sokka responds. 

***

“Go freak out somewhere else,” Mai says. Zuko’s laying on her lap, face buried in her thighs. She’s petting his hair.

“I’m not freaking out,” he says. 

“I can’t hear you, but yes, you are,” she says. “As long as your face is down there you might as well put it to good use.”

“Ugh,” Zuko says, and flips over. He glares at her, hair mussed. “Why are you tempting me? You’re mean. You’re a mean person.”

Zuko hasn’t done anything with Mai in the entirety of his breakup from Sokka. It’s not that he held out hope that they’d get back together or anything. It’s more that their own relationship was so strained that when the opportunity presented it, he couldn’t bring himself to be that vulnerable. He’d think about Sokka, and how he disappointed Mai. 

“Am I?” she asks, and combs the hair out of his face, nails scritching against his skin pleasantly. He closes his eyes with a sigh. “...it’s okay that you’re seeing him, if you’re okay with it.”

“Which I am,” Zuko says. She scritches a bit harder.

They haven’t talked about the marriage either. Mai’s family are still looking for suitors. 

“If you say so, ducky,” Mai says. Zuko wrinkles up his face, and tries not to cry.

“What if it goes really badly?” he asks.

“You can eat me out,” she offers, generously. 

“Mai!” Zuko yells, rewarded by a flash of a smile before she hides it behind her sleeve.

“Would it be so bad? It’s not as if you haven’t already experienced that outcome,” Mai adds. 

“That,” Zuko says, and buries his face in her elbow. “Is horrible. Why would you say that.”

She pats his head some more. “Because it’s true, and it’s useful. Use what you’ve learned.” 

“I’ve learned I’m really bad at this,” Zuko mumbles. 

“That’s the spirit,” she says, and drags him to a sitting position. He leans his face against the side of her neck instead of getting off her lap. “Is Ty Lee still doing your makeup? I’ll do your hair.”

Mai loves doing his hair. She hasn’t offered since he ended their engagement, and Zuko swallows roughly, blinking away the burning in his eyes.

“I’d love that,” he says honestly.

“I know you will, Princess,” she says, and shoves him off of her onto the floor. Zuko giggles, rolling onto his back to stare up at her. 

“Let’s get you pretty!” Ty Lee says, and pokes him in the side with her foot. “Gotta impress your guy. I liked him.”

“Yeah,” Zuko says with a cautious smile. “So do I.” 

“Well, you two have always had horrible taste,” Mai says. 

“Look at you,” Zuko sniffs, poking her with his foot. A knife point pokes back and he laughs, pushing against it even more firmly. 

“I don’t have extra shirts for you right now,” Mai says regretfully, and the knife pulls away. “Come on, stop messing around.”

“Nah,” Zuko says, and kneels. Mai sits on the couch, and begins to comb through his hair. Ty Lee kneels in front of him, makeup case open at their side. He closes his eyes, his mouth, and lets them take care of him.

***

Sokka’s late. Kita didn’t show up for work, so Sokka had to call Mian in instead, but she had her kid with her and needed to bring him too, which meant Sokka had to move the wedding dress he’s been painstakingly beading back into the workshop so that it’s safe from sticky fingers.

So he’s late. Almost an hour late, and when he’d called the Jasmine Dragon at lunch Jin had said that Zuko’d left and she didn’t know when he’d be back. Sokka hopes that she was able to get the message to him. He checks his watch as he bounds out the door, turning to holler at Mian.

“Thank you so much for coming in, let me know if you hear from Kita that he’s okay!” He’s got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he’s actively buttoning his vest as he steps onto the street. 

“That who’s okay?” Zuko asks, about twenty feet higher than his voice normally comes from. 

“AH,” Sokka says, spinning and craning his neck to see Zuko where he’s sitting casually on the roof of his restaurant. 

Zuko gives a little wave. “Is everything okay?” 

It’s hard to see him past the glare of the sun. Sokka cups his hand over his brow and squints, backing up further. “My new guy didn’t show.” 

“You hired a new person?” Zuko asks. He’s swinging his feet a little. There’s shiny bits on his shoes, sending beams of light directly into the back of Sokka’s skull. He winces.

“Three,” Sokka says, “you wanna come down?” It’s the first time he’s seen Zuko since before. He can barely make out his silhouette, and he’s dying from it. He wants to see him, wants to catalogue what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. 

Instead of answering, Zuko swings himself down, more careful than normal. His range of motion looks limited in the formal clothing, and he’s clearly trying to not let the cloth catch on any of the exposed brickwork.

Sokka blinks away the stars from the sun and loses his breath as he recognizes the vest Zuko’s wearing. It’s mostly obscured by a silk robe overcoat, but he sees the flash of embroidery and blushes, pleased.

“You kept it,” Sokka says, glancing up to meet Zuko’s eyes. 

“Sorry,” Zuko says, and looks away, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I thought, since it was a gift— I could have left it, I guess—” 

“I’m happy,” Sokka tells him. “It’s yours, I’m glad you kept it. I like your everything,” he says, gesturing to the red on his lips and the intricate twist of his hair. There’s a red hair ornament hanging from the back. The gems make a soft sound whenever he moves his head. 

“Oh,” Zuko says, and flushes, smiling at the ground. “Um. You’re. You look good too.”

Sokka’s grown out his hair over the half-year they’ve been apart. It hangs just past his shoulders from the high wolftail, not that Zuko would know. 

“You haven’t even looked at me yet,” he teases.

“Don’t need to,” Zuko says, but he finally looks up. His eyeliner is sharper than Sokka’s ever seen it, the bags under his eyes gone and replaced with pink cheeks. “You always look good.”

Sokka’s never wanted to kiss anyone as much as he wants to kiss Zuko in this moment. He rolls his tongue over his lips and smiles faintly. “You’ve always had bad taste,” he says, offering his arm for Zuko to take. His heart is hammering against his vest at the chance that Zuko will touch him. 

Zuko rolls his eyes, and takes it. “You sound like Mai,” he complains, and then stiffens. 

Sokka knows enough now to hear it as the compliment it’s meant as. “She’s a smart lady,” Sokka says easily, smiling at Zuko as they start towards the restaurant. “I’m sorry I’m late. We’ve probably missed the reservation.” 

“Eh,” Zuko shrugs. “What’s the point of being a rich orphan if I don’t spend the money on frivolous things?”

Zuko says it so casually that Sokka blinks. They’ve just started talking, it’s not the time to pry. He presses his lips together to keep the questions at bay. 

“You can ask,” Zuko says. 

Sokka places his hand on top of Zuko’s where it’s crooked in his elbow. “How are you doing?” He settles on. From the little bit he’s managed to gather, Sokka is pretty sure giving condolences wouldn’t be the right choice. 

The question clearly confuses Zuko, but not the way it used to— where he honestly doesn’t know the answer. This confusion passes quickly and without stress. It just wasn’t the question he was expecting.

“Better,” he says, and shoots Sokka a soft smile. “A lot better.”

 _Without Ozai_ is implied, but Sokka’s trying not to make assumptions any longer. “Because he’s dead?” 

“Sort of,” Zuko says. “I— sort of. Apparently I had… a lot of spirit damage.” 

Sokka snorts. “Spirit damage, huh? Who would have thought.” 

“I dunno,” Zuko says, and shrugs. “I hadn’t even heard of it. I guess— I don’t know, I don’t want to— it.”

He’s clearly tripping over things he wants to say.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Sokka says gently. 

“It’s what killed my mom,” Zuko says. 

Sokka draws them to an alley by the restaurant, giving them some privacy as he turns to face Zuko. He’s stunned again by how healthy he looks. 

“Sorry, that’s— bad first date talk,” Zuko says. He reaches up to rub his face then stops short. “I don’t really know how to pretend we’re starting over.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Sokka asks hopefully. They’re not walking anymore, but he still has Zuko’s hand in his, tucked in his arm. Zuko’s warm and solid against the bare skin of his forearm. 

“I thought so?” Zuko says. He looks nervous. Sokka hasn’t ever really seen him at a level of nerves lower than _deep anxiety._ “Because of the penises. And everything.”

Sokka laughs. He lets his eyes crinkle up, messing up his own eyeliner, and he tips his head forward so that it’s only shared with Zuko. “I hope so,” Sokka says. “But um. First.”

He’s scared. Honesty led to so many arguments and fights, and they’re just barely connecting again. He doesn’t want to ruin it so soon, when it’s still so fragile.

But Zuko deserves the apology. 

Zuko’s watching him expectantly, eyes wide and nervous.

“I missed you,” Sokka says. “And I’m sorry. For everything, for all of it. I should have done all of it differently. I should have read the books, and when I knew you were hurting I shouldn’t have let you push me away.” His throat catches at the end there and he clears it softly, squeezing Zuko’s hand. 

“You couldn’t have— changed that,” Zuko says. “It’s. It’s not _stupid_ to focus on what we should have done differently, but it is, because I should have done— everything, ever, differently, but I can’t. So. It’s fine.”

“I’m still sorry,” Sokka tells him. 

“The books thing was actually not fine, so thank you,” Zuko says, laughing a little wetly. He squeezes Sokka’s hand back. “I’m sorry I wasn’t— good enough, yet.”

There’s familiarity in that sentiment, Sokka wanting to argue on Zuko’s behalf, but Zuko beats him to it. 

“Healthy enough, don’t make that face, I’m— words are _hard,”_ Zuko says, and slaps Sokka’s shoulder. Sokka lets go of the indignation, bringing Zuko’s fingers to his lips in a kiss.

“How do you wanna do this? We can wait to talk about all of the heavy stuff. Keep it casual. I don’t want to push you away.” Sokka says against Zuko’s fingers. 

“That was where I fucked up worst, last time,” Zuko says. “I thought that if I just didn’t talk about things, it would stay easy, and _I’d_ stay casual. But it… didn’t. So I think we… actually have to talk.”

He makes a face. 

“I like talking to you,” Sokka tells him. He checks his watch with a grimace. “You think your status can get us a place to talk that’s not the alley?” 

“My status can get us a private dining room in the Upper Ring,” Zuko says, and glances around at the lower ring surrounding them, and pulls a packet of papers out of the inside of his robes. “My coupons for the Jasmine Dragon can get us anything we want here, too.”

Zuko’s so cute and funny. Sokka laughs again, heart lifting at the notion that this might be something he gets to have again.

“Lead the way, princess.” 

Zuko grins, so wide and sudden that it smudges a bit of lipstick on his front tooth as his lower lip crosses it. “Kay,” he says, and tugs Sokka out of the alley.


End file.
